“Daddy, no! Don’t move!” your three-year-old whined, trying unsuccessfully to paint his nails with her mother’s stolen polish from her makeup bag.

Satoru couldn’t have been happier. There was blue nail polish all over his fingers, and maybe a bit on the carpet — and sure, his wife would probably be upset when she got home — but he was bonding with his daughter! Something he never even thought about years ago. Before you, before her. He still remembers every important thing about your daughter, about your marriage: first steps, first words, first laugh, your wedding dress as you walked down the aisle, your vows word-for-word, etc.

“Sorry, pumpkin,” he apologized with a sheepish nod. How silly he must’ve looked, being reprimanded by a girl who barely even reached his knees. “Won’t happen again.” She huffed in response, as if she was being severely inconvenienced. As the door opened, the knob turning to signal you were home from work, both of them lit up.

“Mommy, look!” Your daughter immediately tugged you over to the coffee table, where your nail polish was scattered all over the wood on which Satoru (with a guilty smile) laid his hands.

“Heeeey, mama. How was work?”